A Civil Campaign
by femalegamer
Summary: The war with Orlais is over. A weary Loghain returns to his new Teyrnir, Gwaren. He will learn his new duties, including one that he should have expected. Spoilers for The Stolen Throne.
1. Accolades and Honors

_The name for this story is a homage to Lois McMaster Bujold – it is the title of a book in the excellent Vorkosigan series._

_This is the first, easy chapter; it involves known characters and a relatively easy to see situation. After this, it will get much more difficult as I have to design characters and situations from scratch. Feedback is always appreciated._

* * *

A parade. He made me sit through a Maker-cursed parade. I draw the line at waving, let alone catching flowers thrown by red-cheeked young women. I, of course, have to be wearing that damned armor. My soldiers turned it into a talisman after that battle, and like a fool I started wearing it all of the time. Maker's Breath, I'm an _archer_. In plate armor. By the end of the war, I barely touched a bow, though; I was either getting a backache leaning over a map table or giving some poor nag a backache, being a commander, in that blasted heavy armor. Somehow, Maric convinced me that it was good for the kingdom to let myself be pelted with wilting flowers while yokels cheer for we heroes.

After all that we've, that _I've_ had to do, being thought of as a hero makes me ill.

And then he hands out medals and awards, and I know he's got something up his sleeve as I'm called into court, because he's got the irrepressible grin that defines Maric. He had that grin on his face when he made me a commander. At least that wasn't in front of so many people. Rowan isn't sitting beside him, at least; apparently it takes longer to plan a royal wedding than a coronation.

And like that, I'm a blasted nobleman, the Teyrn of Gwaren. Gwaren is more than half woods, where the only important city is a seaport. Yes, Maric, play a joke on the farmer's son, give him a teyrnir that's got no farmland to speak of.

I stay at the banquet as short a time as I can, sitting on his left, with Rowan to his right, with all three of us pretending that everything is happy, "for the people". We're poked and prodded for glorious stories of our battles with the Orlesians. Rowan looks more than a little worried when I finally speak up. I tell them of my first rebel plan, my masquerading as Maric and splitting the enemy army. My audience is quite enthralled until I start describing the deaths of each man under my command. I'm ashamed I can't give their names – that was the last time I allowed that to happen. The crowd begins to recover as Rowan and her cavalry arrive to rescue us. And then I describe the sounds as their horses pushed the enemy off the side of the cliff to their deaths.

The mood turns quiet after my story and Rowan glares at me like an old uncle that can't be allowed to drink unwatered wine. Pity, I was just getting warmed up.

Afterward, I put on the most worn, comfortable clothing I can find and go out and drink myself into a stupor. The tavern seems to have a great deal of veterans in it, maimed and scarred. They don't ask me a damn thing.

In the morning, I prepare to leave once I've dunked my head in some suitably cold water. I don't recall the last time I let myself drink that heavily. Sadly, I've accumulated more belongings than ever; I own a motley assortment of gifts – weapons, armor, household goods, "priceless" heirlooms. As tempted as I am to leave it all behind, practicality wars with practicality, particularly over the household goods. With a sigh, I go to find a cart and horse that I can purchase, but I know this will not go well.

Predictably, Maric is waiting for me in the stables. He's already made me a damned Teyrn, what could he possibly offer me to get me to stay? Though I shouldn't make the unlikely assumption he would like me to stay, I suppose. Cue the same old tune, anyway.

"I imagine you're leaving for Gwaren." He doesn't make it a question and I realize that he looks a great deal more tired, resigned even, than I've seen him in some time.

"Yes, I am," I drawl, determined to give him nothing soft on which to attach a conversation.

"I was hoping that you might stay longer. We can have a chance to talk more, mend things… It can be like old times." Maric is so hopeful, like a small child or a puppy.

"You would have me stay? For your wedding perhaps – I could give the bride away." Again. I almost say "again", but some small part of my brain stops me. If Maric were armed and I said that, he might run me through. Instead, he looks at the ground, expression equal parts sadness and anger. I walk over to him and clasp his shoulder.

"We can never return to what was, and you know that, Maric. I'm leaving, and you are not going to stop me, this time, and Maker knows that _she_ won't stop me, either." He sighs, all of the air going out of him and nods. I walk towards the stable doors, leading my horse to the cart full of nothing waiting for me.

"Goodbye, my – king."

I am not his friend, not any longer, and I will remember it, even if he refuses.


	2. A Solo Journey

I suppose this is where I should be musing about new beginnings and leaving old lives. What most people do not acknowledge is that while there are always beginnings, they are not fresh beginnings; they build upon what has gone before. I could peel away the layers of my life like an onion skin to find the young farmer lad before the Orlesians invaded.

It is good to be back on the road, and ever better to not be trying to evade pursuit while doing it. I actually stay at an inn, in a real bed, and the innkeeper is happy for the coin. I see signs of healing scars; like the real thing, they will be here for some time. Some may never truly be gone.

My first day out from the capital, I pack away that blasted armor. Farmers are out, planting spring crops that they will likely get to keep. They smile and wave, just to be friendly, not because I am a hero. I awkwardly smile back. (Those who have only known me as a soldier would be startled, I'm certain.) I even wave to them, as I would not for the cheering, adoring crowds, who only knew I was a hero and the king's right hand, and nothing of my real deeds. They're thin and are clearly working hard, but they have hope again. Teyrnir be-damned, this is the only reward I have ever needed. I resist the urge to dump the cart by the side of the road and ask if one of them needs a farmhand.

Four days out, just as the forest starts to thicken, a trio of ragtag bandits attempts to steal my cart and I leave them by the side of the road as an example to others. Their clothes were ragged at best, their weapons were rusty and they were all badly in need of a good meal.

But for the Maker's grace, as they say. My father may have called his band bandits and poachers, but we only ever preyed on the invaders and their supporters. Most bandits take from the poor, because they can't defend themselves. Alone on the road, I must have looked a tempting target, probably a traveling merchant. I feel some small amount of sympathy, but few men who turn to thievery will quit just because you give them a chance to "start a new life".

There's that thought again. There's one thing to most tales of "new lives" – absolution. I do not seek it and do not expect to have it. If I tried to run off to be a farmer, I would give it a month before Maric himself rode up to ask me what in the Maker's Name was doing.

Of course, he would be right. I did so many things to make him face his own duty, what kind of hypocrite am I to even contemplate ignoring my own? The answer is that I'm not considering it, truthfully. I just wish I could even consider it.

Most of my trip is through the Brecilian Forest. I meet the occasional forester or hunter, but for the most part, I am alone with my thoughts, mores the pity. It does give me time to plan my attack upon Gwaren, as it were. I've lead everything from a tiny group of scouts up to an army. I've even organized a camp, but I have never run a village, let alone a Teyrnir. Fortunately, the seaport of Gwaren will still have a mayor of its own, which will take up many of the details that I don't know about but are surely there. I suppose I'll have to find an advisor, much as the thought pains me. Perhaps one of the arls I've fought beside would have a suggestion for such a position, or the Teryn of Highever. So much of the nobility are little more than children now, between those who died fighting and sympathizers either running off to Orlais or being executed. I shudder to think what things might be like in twenty years, with the country being run by a crop of nobles raised in exile, on the run, or by traitors to the true Ferelden crown.

I make poor company for myself and cannot wait for the journey to end. Of course, I'm not sure who I think will fill my hours. I've been told that some of my men will follow, to be my own guards. I suppose I can speak with them, but I will still be their commander. That goes for anyone attached to the Teyrn's household as well, I suppose. I rather think the farmer-soldier-Teyrn won't be snobbish, but I also know that distance has to be maintained, or discipline crumbles. And I am nothing if not disciplined.

I spend the rest of my trip running over how I could have done several losing battles differently. Considering my failures as a commander helps keep thoughts of other failures at bay. I do not pretend to modesty about my command skills; I know that I am an accomplished war planner and leader of soldiers. I know, however, that I am not perfect. I am not dwelling on those battles in despondency, but attempting to find what I could have done better. It will not salve the grief of dead soldiers' families, but perhaps it will save lives someday. I cannot imagine that the Orlesians are done with us yet. I set myself a mental challenge: fifty incidents that I could have handled better during the war. This should occupy my mind for the rest of my journey.

These last quiet nights are should be restful, but I have no choice but to sleep lightly; there is no one with which to share a watch. I have to say that sharing watches between two isn't very restful either, what with only getting a half night each. As part of an army, never mind the leadership, there were usually plenty of people to be on watch, naturally. On the rare occasion when it was Maric and Rowan and I, I frequently ended up with the middle watch, due to superior night vision, but for some reason I didn't mind sleeping, waking and then sleeping again. It gave me a chance to speak to each of them.

So many things seem more real, more possible, in the moonlight, not just the monsters in the shadows.

Tomorrow, I will arrive in Gwaren; I can smell the faintest hint of salt air on the wind when it blows the right way.


	3. Settling In for a Stay

So, here I am, in the city Gwaren of the Teyrnir Gwaren. Imaginative, but some say it is the only worthwhile spot of land in the whole region. Apparently "they" don't care about forests and tiny hamlets. The city is much as I remember it: permanently soot-stained and a little crumbled around the edges. Pale new lumber gleams here and there, while other buildings have been allowed to fall farther into disrepair. I imagine the population has gone down quite a bit.

Fortunately, we've been in control long enough here that most of the sympathizers are either dead or fled. I would hate for my first act as Teyrn be another round of executions. I hate the smell of burning flesh. The nobles here no doubt still remember me from Maric's first big council, when I ran that traitor through where he stood.

It's useful sometimes to have a reputation as the king's enforcer, but it doesn't get you invited to many parties. Truthfully, I find that one of the advantages, but I admit that I don't care for small children running away or ladies fainting when I approach.

Trundling through the narrow streets, more of the residents recognize me, I think, than on my journey; the last time I fought here was long before I began wearing the wretched plate armor, back when they could see my face. There are even a few I think I might recognize, those who worked with us, rather than huddling in their homes.

For some reason, the manor, or palace, or whatever it's been called, wasn't high on lists of building projects. I get down from the wagon's bench to move some stones that are all that bar the gate to the stables. The stable is intact, at least; we left some horses for messengers here. A stable boy (as usual, he's not a boy at all, but probably twice my age) runs up to help me.

"There's an inn in the square that caters to merchants, sir," he suggests politely, with just a little move-along-then-lad in his voice. My lips twist sourly: I've gotten a little too used to being recognized. I raise an eyebrow.

"Well, I might end up there eventually, but all of _this_ is staying here, at least. I'm the new Teyrn… Donagh, wasn't it?" As usual, my attempts at cordiality fall on deaf ears as the poor man pales slightly in recognition.

"Er, General Loghain? I'm sorry, sir, er, Your Grace that is. If you'll just leave this all here, I'll take care of it right away." Well, good for you, but where does that leave me? Going to the aforementioned inn, apparently; I'd rather not stay at a building where you have specify that want a room with a roof. With a pat, I leave behind the horse that behaved so admirably, along with my riding beast, and depart with a saddle bag slung over my shoulder.

I already knew that plenty had recognized my … distinctive visage. While Maric was held in a more mythological regard (he had, after all, returned from the dead here), they held a great deal of affection for the great general. If I should ever find the person they were looking for, I shall send him to them straight off. In the meantime, they were stuck with a much more taciturn fellow.

I appreciate good ale as much as the next man, but not necessarily five or six of them, and most certainly not ten or better. I manage to pawn some of my free drinks off on other people, but my nerves take on that distinctive hum. I try not to wince as I am alternately bellowed at, clapped on the shoulder and sung at. Drunkenly. I draw the line at trying to be gracious when a woman attempts to gauge my… interest, and retire to my room.

The straw in the mattress isn't fresh, but neither is it bug infested.

The mayor, William, has promised me that he knows just the person to advise me. In the meantime, I work on something I understand reasonably well – rebuilding the palace. While I am forced to stay at the inn, the locals become accustomed to my presence and calm down.

The first days are the most physical as we remove stones from a broken wall and a fallen in section of roof. After that, it gets easier, if more tedious: chasing out wild animals and generally cleaning. Coincidentally, it is the very day I had been planning to move my wagon of furniture into my scrubbed new home that my would-be seneschal arrives.

He wasn't much to look at, and even less to listen to. It wasn't that his voice was unpleasant, but it was too – mannered? This was a man who would never shout even in the rare instance he was angry. He was a lean man, though not particularly muscled, and without calluses when I shook his hand. His hair is graying and he has faint wrinkles, though not, I note, smile lines. His clothing fits him well, but is worn thin. His name is Finbar Martin.

I picked at the Orlesian style food, buried in sauces, not sure yet what to make of this man. The fat toady who found him slurped his wine and tried to explain why Finbar was "perfect".

"You've got the title and not the training, he's got the training and no title left! Ha!" The exhalation of laughter made me want to duck lest I be splattered with crumbs or worse. He could be as ingratiating as he wanted, but if he couldn't do his job he was first on the chopping block. Metaphorically, in this instance.

"How'd that come about?" I asked with a raised eyebrow. Everyone knew my story, or thought they did. There were a handful of stories that could explain his situation, but contrary to popular belief, I'm not entirely without social graces. And if he weren't talking, I'd have to listen to the braying ass that was our host instead. I had yet to acquire a dining table, let alone a cook, so we dined at the mayor's residence.

"It's a simple enough tale, Your Grace. The Orlesians took my aging father's barony. Along with his life, of course. Like many borrowers, they did not return it in the condition they obtained it in. I suppose it's still my land and title, but it'll be decades until something can be done with it, as far as I can tell." He told the story simply and without embarrassment. His voice had the slight burr of a Gwaren native.

"I think that they found the interest difficult to bear," I commented wryly. Even the stupidest pigs can find the occasional truffle; this man might be what I needed. "So, you're here to tell me how to rule, are you?" Finbar snorted in response.

"Oh, no, Your Grace. I'll _advise_ you and then sigh in exasperation when you chose to ignore my advice. But it _will be_ advice and nothing more. Think of me as a tutor – you know how many wagons of fodder to bring for twenty horses, I know how many servants are needed for cleaning a manor of twenty rooms." I could at least say that he could read what tone to take with me; he was giving me just enough deference that it looked good from the outside, but not so much as to annoy me. I glowered slightly at the Mayor, who chuckled at Finbar's statements and stuffed some more meat in his maw.

"Really, and what does your vast knowledge say I should be doing first?" How will he react to the perceived insult in that question? Provoking people seems to get the most honest answers.

Finbar takes it in stride: "Well, Your Grace… sir? You've been making the palace livable. With that done, see how the locals are doing, while you let me hire servants and such. I doubt you care to interview every dishwasher and gardener."

So, I've appointed him as my seneschal. (He has a title, however worthless, so this is an appointment. Commoners are hired.) We seem to get along, he sounds as if he can work hard at his job, and I won't bumble about like an idiot… in public, at any rate. I was a little taken aback when he assigned me reading, though, a book on household management. _The Manager of Denerim._

I've moved my ill-matched furniture in, so no straw tick and dodging ales and ale-sodden peasants (scratched out) people again. There is little like being an adolescent in a military camp on the move to make one crave and appreciate privacy.

Thick walls on this building. Quite defensible, especially inner rooms like this one. I've got a window that opens on an inner courtyard. Keeps all the noises out, too, no animals in the courtyard. All the noises. Good, solid ceiling we've put in, polished oak beams here.

Tomorrow, I'll make the rounds of the tradesmen, see what they need to finish rebuilding and start _making_ things again. Wonder what there is here except woodworkers, importers and fishermen.

….


	4. Trade and Conversation

_A bit shorter chapter this time, but for some reason the words did not want to come out._

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* * *

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As suggested, I began a tour of the city. I could have set up formal meetings with some of these tradesmen, but that wasn't what I wanted to see. I didn't want to have guild-masters toady to me, I wanted to see how these people were really doing, what could actually be done to help.

Predictably, Finbar is already trying to turn me into more of a nobleman. He was mildly appalled (he appears to be good at hiding such things) that I might tromp around the city unaccompanied. He politely explained to me that appearances were very important, particularly this early in my reign.

I told him that I was the thrice-damned Teyrn and I would do what I wanted.

We compromised. I'm wearing that blasted armor; it looks imposing and will offer me some protection if someone foolishly decides to make me a target. I see it as a drawback that I'll be instantly recognized, since such armor is decidedly rare; he sees it as an advantage. It says something that he didn't give up in the face of my persuasive argument.

* * *

Blast it, I'm tired. Wearing that armor is bad enough for battle, really, but since I've acquired it I've spent most those battles in a command tent or on top a horse bellowing at less exalted individuals. I had spent today tromping around a city trying to look friendly while wearing battle-scarred plate, in the middle of the summer. I reconsidered my compromise: would some guards be that bad, if I didn't have to wear this again? Not, of course, that I need either…

… but it may help with a slight situation. The people of Gwaren are very informal. I'm the last person in the world to ask for _more_ blasted formality, but I also realize that a leader has to be separate from the led, or people start questioning him and taking orders as suggestions and the like. It never happened with me, but I certainly saw it happen with other lieutenants. We had to shift some of them around, with a bit of a lecture on what they had done wrong. That never really went over well, but I certainly wasn't concerned about hurt feelings while we had a war going on.

You also can't be too close to your men, because you have to be able to give the order, the one that means that some or even most of them might die. Armies have leaders to make the rational decisions that result in victory, no matter the cost in lives. A good strategist finds the path that leads to that victory with the least dead, but "least" isn't always a small number.

I shouldn't even think it, but sometimes I miss the war, simply because I knew what my goals were. It's certainly the kind of thought that never makes it past my lips. I shove _that_ to the back of my brain in favor of more productive thoughts.

Or that's my intent, at any rate. I still have bits of anger bubbling up from the depths of my stewing thoughts. Pompous jackass of an Antivan merchant. Is it _my _fault that there are no overbred, bored Orlesian nobles for him to sell his soft cottons, fine perfumes and expensive, exotic spices to?

… well, actually, I suppose it is my fault. Neither here nor there – they aren't coming back if I have anything to say about it. And I do. It is most definitely not my fault that he paid no attention to the news coming out of Ferelden and came here with those wares in the first place. It's not Gwaren's fault that no one wants to buy his overpriced fripperies. Protesting about the cost to take them elsewhere, he was loaded back onto his boat at my direction. It doesn't leave for a week, but it's healthier for all involved, I think. I know that it makes me feel much better.

The rest of the docks were faring well; the fish trade is thriving as the rest of war-torn Ferelden looks for food. The huts for smoking seem to be belching their foul emanations at all hours of the day and night. The Orlesians didn't even damage too many of their boats, since they wanted trade to thrive as much as the next despotic overlord. Some of them had been seized and I spent some time sorting out the proper owners. I'm not sure what arrangement they had used previously, but they seemed perfectly willing to follow my directions, even as I ripped away someone's livelihood and awarded it to another.

Power like this is seductive, that is clear. Damn Maric. As a general, I did not control the lives of my men, only their deaths. They say this is the ultimate test of a man – give him power and see what he does with it. Apparently it reveals my nature as a cynical and grumpy man. I would never have guessed.

The main industries, then, are surviving well. Out here on the edges, they concentrate first on the things vital to survival: shelter and food. Water is to be had in abundance. The small crafters are having more difficulties: should someone spend the money on an herbal potion to cure a small sickness when they may spend that money on fixing a leaking roof? Or even save that money for when a greater sickness comes along? A frail old woman thus grows frailer, not simply because her goods are seen sometimes as a luxury, but because when there is great need and no money, she practically gives things away. I had no sympathy for the Antivan, but this woman is a local and once had a thriving business, when things were better.

I have promised her that when the bulk of my guard arrives (soon, I would say), I will purchase from her to supply them. I admit to having a weakness for good-hearted old women, but her goods also seem to be of high quality. Perhaps Ailis will be able to visit here someday.

My thoughts were churning off that incident when I nearly got brained with a flying pot, or perhaps it was a beaker. It was difficult to tell, since once it impacted the side of my skull, it had returned to its unshaped form.

"You! You're the one who rode right through our yard that day! Chasing the bloody Orlesians!" the woman shouted at me as I wiped semi-liquid clay from the side of my head. I was told later that I had the most astonished look of disbelief on my face.

"I did – I did what, madam?" As I asked my startled question, I took in the scene a bit more. She did, indeed, stand in the yard of a half-rebuilt shop, stained with scorch marks, probably her home as well. Lining the edges of that yard were shelves of glazed and unglazed pottery. Clearly she was a forward thinker, not deigning to waste a finished piece on me.

"You knocked over all of the shelves and ruined a half year of work is what you did! Two- yes, two years gone now. Had to go live with Cousin Adriana and her husband, couldn't afford to fix things." She seemed to have lost grammar in her anger; the pink of her face went quite nicely with her gold-blond braids, though it clashed with the faded green of her dress. I pulled myself up straight and attempted to look as imposing as possible given that I doubtless still had remnants clinging. I suspected she exaggerated about the half year, but wisdom suggested it wasn't the best occasion to call her on it.

"Would you have preferred if we let the town burn? Or perhaps if we left the Orlesians in peace?" As usual, the word turned into something filthy in my mouth. Orlesians or peace? Yes.

"Are those my only choices, then? Can I have a quarter mark to pack things away instead, ser? Or at least have the chance to break one of the better pieces over one of their thieving heads instead of crushing it in the dirt?"

At that point, I imagine that many men would have dissolved into laughter. Not being most men, I raised an eyebrow and gifted her a not-quite-smile and nod, much as I would a competent fencer. She exacted a promise to pay for at least some of the long-lost pottery, since it was far too late to coerce me into sweeping the area.

I had to be careful, otherwise I would find myself supporting half the town, a position I could not assume. I did suspect, however, that when my own men arrived, they would be spending some of their time learning simple construction techniques. An irony for people who had lived a great deal of their lives in tents.

I did manage to avoid most of those guild-masters I worried about, though the reason is a sad one. They were the men and women fetched to provide some trinket for their previous overlords. Like all children, the Orlesian Teyrn and his underlings had a tendency to break their toys when unhappy, so there was a tragic level of turnover in the most skilled guildsmen. Hopefully I've begun to demonstrate that they don't need to worry about that kind of behavior, at least.


	5. Bonding

As predicated, my men arrived as scheduled. I've been sent twenty of my old "Night Elves", and another twenty regular troops; they mainly fought as infantry, but probably have had some scout experience and can at least stay on the back of a horse, if not fight from it. Rebel mutt troops, and all of them used to the fight. Anything else I need, I'm expected to recruit locally, but they'll be good for training the fish as they come in.

Fish. New troops, so called because they spend so much time flailing about like a fish just pulled gasping out of the river. Perhaps it is also an allusion to the enemy eating them for dinner? Really, though, we had few enough professionally trained soldiers during the war to ridicule anyone willing to join in the fight.

They bring with them a note, sealed with Maric's newly minted emblem pressed into the yellow wax. I'm tempted to burn it, or something equally extravagant. It is a pity that I live in a real world, where action may have consequences and we all have responsibilities. No one just throws out a missive from the king, no matter who you are or how you feel about him. For the moment, I chose to ignore it, though; if it had timely, important information, it would have come with verbal instructions as well.

Finbar has been efficient with their arrival; the barracks have been set up with bunks, blankets and the like, though he did find something to be flustered about.

"Sir, I didn't prepare enough barracks for the three women to have a room of their own," he commented apologetically.

I nodded. I wasn't sure what his point was.

"Where should we put them? We could house them in the guest quarters…"

"Absolutely not. That would be special treatment. House them with everyone else." Being who he was, I could tell he was shocked, but I suspect most wouldn't have noticed his eyes widen slightly, nor the slight catch in his voice as he responded.

"But, sir, aren't you worried about, about their treatment, sleeping near the men, changing clothes and the like?" There was an unspoken _Are you really sure about this?_

"These are troops that have been in the field. There is no room for modesty when you're sleeping in a thicket, or a cramped tent if you're lucky. There's no room for modesty when you just got stabbed in the gut and someone has to hold you together until you reach a healer. Finally, these women are _soldiers_ – any of the men try something, and they'll deserve what they get. Failing that, I'll introduce them to the herdsmen." He looked quizzically at me at the last, but I felt I'd gotten my point across.

"The herdsmen are well practiced at neutering the pigs, Finbar."

* * *

With them here and settled in, there was one thing to do: show them the lay of the land. No, I didn't show them the town, let alone the taverns. Where they did their wenching or drinking was their own business. Gwaren has few elves, since most of them would rather run away to join their wild kin in the woods, so I have no doubt that my Night Elves will have little trouble finding bed partners.

Damn exotic elves.

Anyway, the woods, the hills, the cliffs over the sea. Most of Ferelden nestles in the flat plains at the center of rough territory. The sea divides much of Thedas from us, but the land is not friendly at its fringes for those that make the crossing. I'll say this much: it took courage to move an army through the mountains to take Ferelden. Greed is such a motivational force. One day, someone must go to the frozen wastes beyond the Wilds, see if there are any threats there.

Regardless, there are plenty of threats to be had now, especially near a city that survives through trade. I took out groups of ten, and over the course of the week, we made the area much safer. Again, I sympathize with the desperate, but not when they prey on their own people. Perhaps I should round them up and cart them off to Orlais.

Probably violates some treaty or other, sadly. Politics or rules always seem to interfere with my more… creative solutions to problems.

Back to my train of thought, my old Night Elves and new troops bonded over bloodthirsty bandit killing and No Shit There I Was stories, each more implausible than the last. Unsurprisingly, I did not choose to share, just ensured their supply of alcohol didn't give out. Around the time that someone was describing a man the size of an ogre that was improbably also a mage, I departed for my bedroll. I nodded to a sentry on the way; it didn't matter that we were in friendly territory. I then worked that peculiar soldier's magic of sleeping deeply enough to ignore revelry, yet lightly enough to be woken by an attack, and dropped off.

* * *

I was immediately accosted by Finbar on my returned. I had done no more than drop off my heavier gear at the developing armory when he cornered me.

"Are you – is that blood, Your Grace?" he asked, brow furrowed in suspicion. I'll never figure out how he avoided combat so thoroughly without being a sympathizer, and he must have been quite adept if that were true.

"How observant of you, Finbar. I _am_ planning on bathing before any wretched meetings you have scheduled, though I suspect that if I did not, they might go faster." So many meetings hurried up by the application of the point of a blade…

"Er, yes, no doubt, sir. Before then, I do have a few items for your attention…" Mostly, he had routine receipt of deliveries and the like, but there were two objects of interest in his mundane list. "You had me send a payment down to the potter girl last week, but… I received back a note saying that the payment was too large, sir."

"I imagine it was, since I intended it to be. She's a bold woman and deserved better than the war served up to her." I had thought I'd sent a close enough amount to avoid accusations of charity, but it appeared I was mistaken. A proud woman, as well, as I should have noticed. "Did she send it back, then?"

"No, Your Grace, she sent a box of crockery – a plate, bowl and cup for you, it appears. For you personally, as they have the arms of Gwaren worked on them, " Finbar explained and looked at me with an expectant eye. I thought he had learned more of me by now than to expect an explanation. When it wasn't forthcoming, he continued.

"Finally, the summer is almost done, obviously, and the year has been better than they've had in some time, so the city is planning to have a harvest festival, once the first harvests begin to come in. Produce competitions, feats of strength, dancing…" He described, as if I'd never seen one before. Ferelden had been squashed by the Orleisians, but there are some customs that won't die, if only to keep the despair at bay. I made a circular "And this concerns me how…?" gesture with my hand.

"You'll be expected to attend, of course, my lord. I expect you'll be asked to judge some of the events, particularly the more martial ones, naturally. And, of course, the banns will be there, along with their families."

Lovely. So I was going to be expected to award prizes for jumbo size turnips and knitted caps, no doubt. My expression showed what I thought of that and Finbar allowed himself to be waved off, though I had no doubt that he would remind me as the occasion approached.

* * *

One last duty remained, now that I did not have the excuse of being "in the field". Maric's letter stared at me until I opened it, scattering the cracked wax across my desk. I was somewhat gratified that he stuck almost entirely to business. Trade was up with our neighbors, troop numbers were good, that sort of thing. Bryce Cousland and his wife (what was her name?) were expecting a child, notable given that he held the only other teyrnir in Ferelden. He did urge me to visit at the winter holidays, noting that Gwaren gets quite cold, as I should remember, though he supposed it was better when you had an actual building with four walls and a roof, rather than a tent.

It was easy to ignore his shallow attempts at cordiality. There were plenty of things that could keep me in Gwaren for the winter and beyond. It was the simple sentence at the end, below Maric's signature that undid me a little.

_I hope that this letter finds you well. -Rowan_


	6. Memories and Irritants

Infuriating woman. They say that the opposite of love is not hate, it is indifference, and I believe them. I do not hate Rowan, but she makes me feel more emotional than anyone else can. Some people coo about love and how without it they become hollow and emotionless, statues or what-have-you. I just find it irritating. She has moved on to her destiny and I am mired in my duty here. She has no business sending me anything at all.

I stuff that irrational side of myself down to the bottom of my brain, under the dirty laundry and memories of Maric singing after trying dwarven ale. I will not regret my decision. I will not do anything behind Maric's back. I will do nothing to tempt myself or Rowan. I made my choice and my life will go on.

The crash appears to attract no attention, but I clean up the shattered pottery shards rather than make the servants curious.

* * *

A few days have managed to pass without any deviation from routine, calm and dull. I am not disappointed in the least by this, though I suspect my sparring partners wish I had more to do. I manage to fit in a few sessions of archery lessons for some of Gwaren's younger citizens with Finbar's extreme disapproval. He became less disapproving when I point out that this is part of training the next generation of soldiers, never mind hunters for this generation. I would worry about overhunting, but with the scarcity of people and the abundance of woodland, I think there is no danger. The contrast with their former Orlesian lord's draconian rules in regard to hunting in 'his' forest are stark.

And, of course, the harvest festival nonsense approaches. I suppose not _nonsense, _since it emphasizes that the people have something to celebrate, but nothing I care about attending. The fringe activities to prepare are becoming irritants. To give an example:

Yesterday morning, I was barely out of my bed when a knock came, followed by an attempt to open my door. I took the time to splash my face with cold water and pull on breeches, at least, and then unbarred my door to admit Finbar and a short, thin man in impeccable clothing.

This, apparently, was my tailor. Because I was expected to dress according to my station for the banquet I was apparently throwing for the visiting nobles at this festival.

"When was I going to learn about this banquet?" I grumbled as the nameless tailor touched me in places that I chose to ignore, particularly since I was stripped back down to my undergarments for the best fit. At least he seemed to be professional about it – he treated me as if I were a stuffed dummy instead of a person. Best fit? The last time clothing was made for me was by my mother, not for fit, but because clothing was more expensive than cloth. "Do I need to remind you that _I_ am the Teyrn, and you are merely my seneschal?"

"Sometimes, Your Grace, you make it difficult to remember that you don't already know about these things. I mentioned that the banns would be visiting, and you nodded, made notes, we discussed which ones would need accommodations, and somehow it never occurred to me that you didn't realize that if we, you are housing them that they must also be fed and entertained."

"So now I have the choice of feeling flattered or admitting to being ignorant? Nicely done. One day, I'm going to put a fancy dueling sword in your hands and see what you can be taught to do, Finbar," I complemented. He seldom made the same mistake twice. On this occasion, he avoided asking me any questions about what I wanted in the clothing, since whatever answers I chose to give would doubtless make for inappropriate court garb, though well suited to blending into southern pine forest.

"While we're on the subject, let me make certain I have all of the details. Rosewall and Dragon's Mist here, Southshore is a cousin of the Lord Mayor, so they'll be staying there. And Southron Hills has tendered their regrets. There will be a smattering of lesser lords and knights, and you know exactly how many and which ones will stay here. You've drawn up some arcane seating arrangement with room to adjust for last minute arrivals or cancellations, and will bring in reinforcements for the kitchen and serving." I couldn't help raising an eyebrow as I looked down on Finbar from my perch on a low stool. I felt I needed to demonstrate that I had been paying attention; just because I am not a social creature doesn't mean I'm ignoring my _job_. The tailor, who by now knew more about my proportions than anyone on the face of Thedas, grunted and squinted as he wrote down a final chest measurement. Having never looked me in the eye, he left the room, stuffing his measuring string in a pocket.

"Exactly so, my lord!" Rather than looking abashed about my implied rebuke, Finbar seemed elated that I remembered the details; even idiot farmer's sons turned soldiers can be taught, apparently.

* * *

Freshly baked bread. I breathed more deeply and I could almost taste it, slathered with butter. It was a luxury while we were rebels, either under my father or later; butter will keep almost forever, but bread stales quickly. It could only be made at a long-term camp, where the bricks were brought out to make ovens, or as we stayed with ally, so it was also a taste that said I was safe. It was a taste of childhood, before we were running. So many memories from just a simple smell.

_Clearly_, I should do the cook the courtesy of speaking with her directly rather than just approving the menu that lay on my desk. The door to the kitchen seemed to link directly to the fires of Andraste's pyre itself, but I persevered. I was immediately rewarded by the sight of one of the assistant cooks removing the day's bread with a wooden paddle from the rounded stone oven at the far side of the room. The chief cook stood at a counter, beating pungent spices of some kind into a bowl.

"Why, good morning, Your Grace, you're up early. What brings you to my kitchen, then?" She hadn't looked at me, I would have sworn. Cooks always seem to have some kind of additional sense, particularly sensitive to adolescent boys attempting to filch additional food to feed their bottomless appetites.

"The menu. For the upcoming feast during this festival. I don't want anything fancy, you know, I want good, simple Ferelden-"

"Yes, yes, the backlash against anything that smacks of Orlesian cooking, or anything else for that matter. You do know, m'lord, that there's a lot of space between 'charred meat on a stick' and 'Orlesian' for Ferelden cooking to live, hmm? Plenty of sauces that we've been making for generations, and you can find most of them right here." She tapped a finger against her grey temple. "My father cooked for the old Teyrn, before they came, and his mother for Bann Rosewall before that, and who knows how far back. You think of what you've eaten as Ferelden food, but what you've been eating is _army_ food, lad."

"Really, madam, I-" I barely had my mouth open when she stuffed a hunk of meat – beef? – dipped in whatever she's been working on into it.

"There, try that. Beautiful cameline sauce, fresh cinnamon. As Fereldan as mabari hounds. But not simple and not plain. You still taste the beef, yes?"

I nodded with a scowl and chewed quickly and swallowed. "Yes, I see that, but-"

"Now, I'm thinking if you want local flavors, first meat'll be a good venison pie with honey and currants, and then some fish. I was thinking eels, but it's too hot for eels still, too fatty…"

They say cooks come in two varieties – fat and jolly or skinny and mean. My cook, who's name I never have managed to find out, was the latter variety. I felt lucky to escape with my life, let alone a damned piece of bread, but the undercook noticed I was eyeing the fresh loaves and took pity on me as I slipped out between tastings. By that time, I had tasted everything else in the kitchen and learned the names of three different sauces that were essential Ferelden cuisine, even if I didn't know what they contained.

As I left, I noticed a pair struggling with the door and a heavy crate. As I moved to hold the door open, I recognized her, even before I heard the tinkle of crockery in the crate: the potter girl who had rebuked me with her gift in return for my charity. She must be providing additional tableware for the fiasco. This is good, since I can now attest to the quality of her wares. I nodded at her and she dipped slightly in a suggestion of curtsey. I had no reason to disturb her at her work, so I did not.

I wondered, at the end of the day, why this stuck with me so.


	7. Old Stories and Knit Socks

I was smug in the knowledge that there was no way there was time to teach me even the simplest of court dances – an oxymoron if I ever saw one. Pompous nobles walking in intricate and meaningless patterns, barely allowed to touch and seldom together enough to speak, as far as I've seen. There are probably some peasant dances stuck in the recesses of my mind; I have a good memory for movements, as befits a warrior. In fact, the coordination of a fight sometimes can resemble a dance, at least from the outside; it is not so pretty from the inside, I can promise that. Regardless, I would be out of place in such a dance, more so now than ever. I admit, though, it is good to keep people on their toes, make them question what they think they know of you.

* * *

The week has arrived. More citizens than I would have thought Teyrnir Gwaren held had swarmed into the city like so many starving rats – rats starving not for food (though they might be) but for the celebratory air that the city had already begun to have. Last week, the city had been working itself to the bone to get in our meager southern crops and bountiful fruit harvest. You couldn't stick your nose outside without being hit in the face by the smell of apples being pressed.

Now, the city still bustled, but it had a different feel. People were already wearing clothing that they only brought out a few times a year, more brightly colored than they wore to work in. They smiled more, it seemed to me. They touched more. I looked down from the window of the barely reconstructed tower of my palace and was satisfied. This was a city that was doing well, even if I could not yet take credit for it. These were people who were used to coping with hardship and thrived

My reverie was interrupted so that I could begin my official duties. I had to go down into the teeming mass, and my head had already begun to throb, right over the inside corner of my right eyebrow. Just because I enjoyed seeing my people be happy didn't mean I wanted to join them. Funny how I could live cheek by jowl with my fellow soldiers in battlefield conditions, but this, this was going to be torture.

Stew recipes. Javelin throwing , a weapon that has not been used for at least two hundred years (at least it was a _weapon, _something I felt qualified to comment about). Instead of the knit caps I predicted, it was knit socks: the winner allowed me to keep the pair, which were a size too small and decorated with sunflowers. Pickled beets, the purple almost glowing like they had been enchanted, a color that should not occur in foodstuffs. Fortunately, while I was expected to examine all the entries, there were properly qualified judges who pretended to take my opinions into account.

After my first attempt, I realized that my congratulatory smiles looked as fake as they felt, so I settled for sternly nodding and giving out congratulatory pats on the back. I spent most of my time running over in my mind different ways to dispatch the majority of the winners, though I didn't have the heart to imagine snapping old ladies' necks or gutting small children, no matter how bored or frustrated I had gotten. Mind you, I'm not saying that I _wanted_ to kill any of these people; it was a merely an exercise to keep my mind occupied. I challenged myself by excluding all weapons on my person and keeping unarmed kills to a minimum and otherwise restricting myself only to what I could reach. Knitting needles proved to be very versatile.

I was only subjected to one ridiculous song about my exploits. The details were wrong in almost every respect, but at least the vocalists were only mediocre. Rather than wretched. Not, of course, that anyone has ever chosen to listen to my dulcet singing voice, but I also do not chose to utilize it save when marching.

So that was my day. That evening I found myself reflecting back on it with longing.

"So papa made me leave him at home, poor little pup. He's hardly ever been apart from me; he even sleeps on my bed at night and sits at my feet while I embroider," my dining companion explained sadly. I had made the mistake of admitting to owning a hound as a child, so she had felt licensed to ramble. I should have I learned my lesson from her pointless story of her trip to Gwaren, in which nothing at all happened. My only excuse was finishing my first goblet of wine while listening to that first 'tale'.

She was Bann Rosewall's daughter, Constance; already she seemed flighty enough to make me consider labeling that name an irony, but I had no evidence of a lack of loyalty. Sadly, her father sat near enough that I could not tell her to shut her mouth without causing an incident, so I merely attempted to ignore her slightly nasal prattling. With luck, I would learn to do so before I had to drink enough to send me to the floor.

Dinner itself was ridiculous. I had been to a state dinner when this all began, back in Denerim, but I had so much more leisure to consider the incredible quantities of food passing through, never mind the dishes just for show. An eel stuffed with something and wired so that it attacked a smaller scale ship made of bread? Was that really necessary, when there was still the possibility of people going hungry this very night? At that point, we were in the middle of the first course, which would consist of _fifteen dishes_.

"But please, ser, you must tell me more about _your_ dog," Constance breathed almost in my ear, laying her hand on my arm. I looked at her hand. I looked at her, still two inches from my face. She flinched away.

"She was killed. By the Orlesians."

"Do, do you dance, my lord?" She scurried for another topic and could scarcely have found a worse one without finding something personally offensive. "I would be quite happy to share one, if you wished." Her slight pallor and the way she no longer leaned toward me seemed to belie her words.

"I never had the leisure to learn to dance. I was too busy killing our invaders and hiding in thickets in the woods."

The rest of the course was quieter, on the relative scale of one hundred people in a single room, however large. The interval between courses came, and she scurried off, dragging some equally perfumed and lace-festooned woman with her into some corner to gossip about my outrageous behavior.

Most of "my" guests went to watch the jugglers, but I found myself actually enjoying the evening, nay, the day, for the first time. I found a grizzled old knight who obtained an invitation simply by being here at the right time. Ser Miles had been knighted by Queen Moira not long after she had taken the crown for defeating a trio of soldiers and rescuing one of her messengers in the process. Rather than join the rebel army, he had lead more guerilla efforts, in the Bannorn. His hit and run tactics showed a man after my own heart.

"So, the head chevalier and his men – this candlestick, that'll do – were going to coming around the plate, and one of my scouts knew that, so we –"

"Your Grace, Ser, the next course is ready to be served. Unless, of course, Your Grace wishes to _delay it_?" An image of months of food prepared by an irate cook flashed through my brain. Choose your battles carefully, they say, and they say wisely. Before leaving, the head server moved my implements back to their locations and I couldn't help thinking how it makes no strategic sense now.

My dining companion had returned, of course, and apparently was either a slow learner or had a short memory.

"Oh!" she trilled. "Was that about one of your battles? I thought it was ever so heroic to hear how you and the queen rescued the king during that one battle, where the queen's father gave his life so bravely, poor woman." And I would swear she batted her eyelashes at me.

The woman thought the situation at West Hill, where I was berated for valuing the life of a would-be king over an army of men, was _heroic_, probably even thought that it was _romantic_. More hair than sense, I think the phrase is? And in case I hadn't realized the situation, I saw the woman's mother shaking her head at her in dismay.

I had just made it out the door when Finbar caught up with me. He inquired as to what was wrong. He wasn't expecting me to do what I did: turn and grab him by the throat, pushing him against the wall. I don't believe I did anything so dramatic as lift his feet from the floor, but it is sometimes difficult to remember what occurred through the fog of rage.

"Do you think I'm dim, Finbar? Do you think I've not noticed how the pretty young woman, a _bann's_ daughter, that _your_ seating charts placed next to me is acting? So interested in me, yet not listening to what I say? A child's mind in a woman's body, a body she wants to sell for the highest title she can get. You can tell our guests that I took ill, or there was urgent business or whatever other polite lie that you like, but you will _never_ manipulate me like that again, or I will have far more than your position. I trust that I make myself clear?"

Twice in one evening, I had rendered someone speechless. It reminded me of the old days.

If I thought I was in a rage then, at Finbar's attempts to through together a situation, it was nothing compared to when she came chasing after me to "see if I was well".


	8. The Night Air

_Sorry about the wait; I had a few other challenge type pieces to work on, and then I had to get back into the groove to write this chapter. Hopefully, there won't be another break l like this for a while._

_

* * *

_

Since apparently on this particular day I wasn't safe in my own rooms, I decided not to stay in them. I stormed past that poor twit of a girl who had come to – what, seduce me? Perhaps I was too hard on her; she hadn't chosen her position any more than I had, even if she was even less suited to it. On the other hand, that didn't mean I cared for spending time with her, whether a dinner, a night, or the rest of our lives.

I stood in an alcove for a moment, considering. I pondered the idea of booting Finbar out of his own rooms, but I wanted nothing more to do with the man that evening. For that matter, he was most likely back at the hall making apologies for me, leaving me with two unpalatable options there: going back to the hall to find him, which would give lie to his excuses, or I could simple take his rooms and allow him to discover that when he went to retire. That was how I ended up at the stables.

I removed my bag from its hiding place behind the manger of the old, but reliable, horse I had brought from Denerim. It contained two plain, serviceable shirts, worn trousers, small clothes, short wool cloak, some rations that barely qualified as food, and some coin. I could change clothing and settle down in the hayloft for the –

WHAM.

WHAM. WHAM. This time, the thunderous blows on thankfully solid planks were followed by the unmistakable scream of a full stallion with a goal in mind. I wasn't sure who the bigger idiot was: my stableman who missed that a mare was coming into season this late in the year, or the fool who decided to use an uncut stallion as a riding horse. I decided on the latter; it was, after all, into the fall, making the situation with the mare unlikely, but the stallion had the chance to be a problem no matter what. That opinion was cemented when I heard said stableman coming to see to things.

Listening to the angry stud continuing to cow-kick his stall, I came to the conclusion that no rest would be had in the stables for hours to come. I escaped into the early evening air as I pondered my options; they were dwindling along with the light as the sun began to slip behind the high walls.

A burst of applause and shouts of approval had drawn my eye and I found myself following it through the back gate like a moth drawn to its fiery doom in a candle's flame. I sat on the slightly damp ground and leaned against the wall of my keep and listened to the faint sounds of excited fiddle playing. As the natural light faded into the pinks and purple of the sunset, it was replaced by the flickering light of torches, lanterns and a bonfire that stuck its head over the tops of the cottages between me and the square. Any remaining horse noises had faded behind the walls of stone and wood, thankfully.

* * *

I jolted from the pleasant half-asleep state that good wine, rich food and the soft festive sounds in the distance had lulled me into. It took only a moment to pinpoint why; three figures – women – had come through the same gate I had left from. They weren't being stealthy. They paused on the path and stretched, enjoying the same cool and quiet that I was. A soft remark was made and the other two chuckled.

Of course, I wasn't startled; I didn't jump. I _shifted_ due to the rock wall poking me in the back.

Fortunately, I wake up quickly, so I was able to duck beneath the well swung cudgel that came crashing toward my head. Two of the ladies, an older plump woman and a slight almost-girl, hid behind the third and her cudgel. Once again, I faced the blond potter, who looked more furious than scared. I wonder what she would have looked like if she had connected and turned my skull into a fine paste against the stone wall. I exaggerate; I think she pulled the blow at the last moment.

Somehow I went from a quickly thought out explanation that I was waiting for a girl ("The rest are going to be kept for hours to help with the cleaning, so no use waiting now!") to being drug down with them to the square. As we walked up, a round dance was just beginning and I found my hands grasped in the steel grip of a determined woman on each side and so on out onto the cobbled square that had been cleared for the evening.

Not only are most such dances combinations of no more than a half dozen steps, but round dances like this are in a big circle. I had little difficulty keeping up, even if I wasn't entirely sure why I wanted to. As it came to a close, I skulked back under the trees, where the elderly gathered to drink and talk about how the winter would likely be. My cloak with its identity concealing hood was feeling quite warm; in the shadows I felt I could push it back. After all, I wasn't wearing The Armor, and my presence was certainly unexpected. The mind tends to fill in gaps like faces glimpsed in the shadows with expected values, not visiting Teyrns.

She followed me. I didn't realize that I trailed her in my wake until I sat down and turned to find her standing there. I raised an eyebrow up at her. She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head back at me. I inclined my head at the other chair and nodded. She moved the chair closer and sat.

"I hope that you're enjoying yourself… Your Grace," she said in a voice for my ears alone. I casually leaned back more in my chair, farther into the shadows.

"Not how I expected to spend my evening, but I would say anything would be an improvement over that banquet, up to and including lying sleepless staring into the dark the night before a battle, "I commented nonchalantly, as if I knew from the beginning that she had recognized me. Clever girl, and she had seen me more closely than most.

"I think the dancing is my favorite part. The food isn't much different for the rest of the harvest season, if not in these amounts. We'll have a few more large markets before the winter, even if none of them are _this_ large. The dancing, though, that we really only get at special times like this." She, too, leaned back from her initial perch on the edge of her seat. We were lucky; Gwaren has so much wood and woodworkers that we had chairs instead of backless benches to twist our spines into knots. I'd rather have a canvas camp stool than one of them; at least the seat has some give to it.

"I admit that I haven't been to as many celebrations like this as I'd like, and few of them in the same places. No two villages are quite the same, you know. But I suppose… I suppose I like to see people sharing what they have, making sure it's a celebration for everyone." I gestured to the trestle table, still laden with odds and ends of fresh fruits over to the large communal kettle now swung off the fire.

She nodded at my comment. "I can see that. When I was child, I would have said it was seeing friends and relatives that lived too far for an easy visit, but now…" She sighed, trying to hold the melancholy thought at bay. "Well, the Chantry would say they are better off than we, yes? Not sure I believe it entirely, but it helps keep the ghosts away in the night."

I raised an entirely imaginary glass to her. "When few things do, I would say." She smiled somewhat awkwardly and rearranged her skirts. The atmosphere had gotten more than a bit heavy.

"So… well, I've mentioned that my favorite part is the dancing, and you cannot deny that you know how, clearly, so how long will you make me wait before asking me to dance, hmm?" she inquired playfully, clearly trying to lighten things back up. I stretched my legs out as if settling in for a time.

"I really don't know how you can expect such a thing when I don't even know your name, I just know that you have a good eye and that you make lovely plates when you aren't flinging them at my head." I missed this kind of verbal fencing; it wasn't just that vapid Rosewall girl and her prattling at nothing, but I was surrounded with so much deference these days. Finbar wasn't deferent, per se, but he wasn't much of a wit, either. This woman was willing to talk to me like I was still a normal person, even knowing precisely who I was. It was… refreshing.

"Oh, well, I certainly wouldn't want to give you an excuse, sir. I am Celia, the journeyman potter and joiner's daughter. And, I will tell you, I made no promises that I won't throw anything else at you, but I will give you a chance to explain yourself first if I find it necessary," she promised rather impishly. I found myself wondering if my actions would put that promise to the test.


	9. The Dawning  Light

So, I asked her to dance, of course – after that conversation, I could hardly do less. We weren't able to talk; like most common dances, it was fairly energetic. At the same time, you can tell things about someone by dancing with them. The purely physical: how is their balance, their nimbleness, their wind. The more subtle: their timing, their spatial awareness, their memory for the steps. Finally, you learn whether you can trust them to be there when you come back around the end of the line to take their hand.

Celia did all of these things with style and grace, including smiling at me in a fashion that has seldom happened: not just brightly, but with a sincerity that I hadn't realized was so rare until that moment. Her hand was slightly cold, even after all of that, so I insisted she take my half-cloak as we returned to our seats; with the sun down, the air was chilling quickly.

So, I was risking having my guests know that I had feigned illness (or whatever excuse Finbar concocted) because this woman had expressed a desire to dance. I suppose it wasn't much of a risk. As I said, people see what they want to see, so perhaps no one here would see their Teyrn, and if they did, why would the topic come up between one of them and a visiting nobleman? In the end, I was a jumped up farmer known for his irritability and unpredictability: I would do what I damned well wanted, and I suspected that while people might pretend to be scandalized, they would not really be surprised.

So, having worked that out, I was promptly thrown back into it. "So… why _are_ you out here, instead of at your dazzling feast? We all saw you leave, but no one really seemed to know why for certain," Celia inquired conspiratorially. "We saw that awful woman run after you. My cousin has been assigned to her rooms and says she's been unbearable about everything."

I gave her a level look at that last statement. She blushed. "Ah, yes, I see. Was she really so bad that you had to leave? As lovely as this has been, I can't imagine it will reflect well on you should they find out," she pointed out. Nothing that I hadn't already been mulling over myself by that point. I nodded with a slight sigh.

"I believe the best response is that they will just have to get used to me, as I am being forced to get used to them. And the far-flung future, when I feel it necessary to throw something like this, I'm taking a hand in the guest list myself." That last elicited a slight chuckle.

The quiet settled in a bit. I decided not to ask about her family lest she ask about mine; it was a subject that was generally avoided after all of the losses to the Orlesians. While Celia did not seem to mind the silence based on her lack of shifting and the like, she chose to break it.

"Is it so very different, being a, "she gestured at the keep, suddenly more cautious about my title. "From being a general? I mean, obviously there's a lot less killing people, and not so much of the sleeping in damp tents, but you're still making decisions and, well, telling folks what to do."

"You really want to know about that sort of thing?" I asked skeptically. Small talk is… not my best skill and I wanted to be sure that this wasn't the equivalent of asking about the weather or my health.

She mock glared at me. "If I didn't want to know the answer to the question, I assure you that I wouldn't have asked it. If, on the other hand, you don't want to talk about it, you are welcome to deflect answering it." And she folded her arms, eyebrows raised in expectation. We seemed on the verge of the politest argument I'd ever been in, but if this continued to escalate, a simple enough conversation would probably end up being continued through other parties by the end of the evening! _"You tell her that I said…" _Wisely, I hope, I chose to reduce hostilities and Celia relaxed slightly, though she continued to listen interestedly.

"Managing food supplies, building things, acting as a judge, yes those are similar enough. The telling people what to do? It would be difficult for it to be more different – while I won't say that _all _soldiers just do what they're told, they don't argue so much. If they're going to disobey, they just wait until they're alone and do what they wanted and presented me with the results later." I didn't care for sharing about Finbar pushing me around in his attempts to make me into a real nobleman. He and I would be having a Discussion soon, but it would be with him, not with a woman I barely knew.

"So, you're saying that you want people to at least pretend to follow your orders? " she interpreted with a grin.

"No, I'm saying that if you're not going to do what I tell you, then at least don't waste my time arguing with me." Like many people, my mouth causes me more trouble when I open it than anything else; instead, I've developed a reputation for being taciturn due to keeping my mouth shut. The expected outrage and disbelief didn't come, though.

"You know that the more you act like that, the more afraid they get of you. I know there are people working for you that are already too nervous to bring their problems to the general, the Great Hero. Obviously most of them don't have to come to you, but someone has to, "she pointed out in stride. And, I might add, with some insight, even if she didn't know it; the cook was fearless, but why had Finbar implemented his little scheme in the first place, if not because he felt it was better not to discuss it? I didn't believe for an instant that he had assumed I knew there would be matchmaking at my dinner. I hadn't showed any knowledge of the social aspects of being a noble before this, so why would I start now?

I frowned glumly and nodded that she had a point. New plans and thoughts flew through my head. This wasn't the occasion to plan out a new attack on the castle staff, naturally, and I was forcibly reminded of that. "… but I suppose that's neither here nor there. I don't suppose you've heard anything about any of the northern caravans? We mostly use local colors, but I have some special glazes that we have to bring in."

"They haven't sent a rider ahead yet, which they did with the summer caravan…"

And so it went. Somehow, it was small talk without being _irrelevant_ small talk. We talked about the glazes and what else might come with the traders, which led to Celia's difficulties in reproducing a quilt pattern that her mother had used, which led to how my mother had never been able to sew more than a button without bleeding all over her work. We didn't say it, but it was obvious that both women were no longer alive which led to… you get the idea.

* * *

"… so, I explained to him that if he ever flung his muddy boots on my bedroll again, he'd end up eating them. They were good leather; I think the cooks would have been happy to have them at the time."

"You told the _king _that? Oh dear!"

A throat clearing noise brought my attention to the side. Finbar stood there, looking a bit bloodshot but well-scrubbed. "Your Grace, I am glad to find you well. Some of your guests with longer trips will be leaving shortly. I've taken the _liberty_ of having hot water prepared and fresh clothing laid out." The emphasis was slight, but obviously deliberate.

"Already? But it's – it's dawn. Hrm. Yes. Well, if you will excuse me, Celia," I stood and stretched enormously. A few other diehards were still awake, a few tending the fire and a cluster singing a song only recognizable to their fellow drunkards. I felt something pop in my back and realized that while I was tired, I was more relaxed than I had been in some time – years, possibly.

"Of course. Another time, Your Grace."

As I reached the gates of the keep, I realized I had left my rough, soldier's cloak around her shoulders. An excellent excuse.

* * *

My guests did not, I expect, suspect much from my bleary appearance; Finbar had, indeed, told them that I was suddenly taken ill. I was not unhappy to see that some of the departing guests were Bann Rosewall and his unfortunate daughter. She had the grace to redden and look away under my stern, if bloodshot, gaze. As I handed her grandmother up into a carriage, she playfully put a hand on my cheek and thanked me for being such a gentleman. Perhaps prior tradition of such women being sent to negotiate matches was a better idea than it had previously seemed.

They were swiftly dealt with and I retired to my chambers. A servant had drawn the curtains tightly against the sunlight, which mattered to me neither one way nor the other. I was used to taking sleep as I could, and yet I stared at the ceiling , thinking about my night and that final thought about retrieving my cloak.

This woman was not Rowan, and I had not been looking for one. An independent, intelligent woman who was a natural strategist and a fierce combatant? Not likely, and an insult to her to think that even if another woman shared those traits that she would be duplicate in any way. Celia was herself and I had enjoyed spending time with her. She was terribly independent, and unafraid of standing up to me, that was made abundantly clear. In less than a handful of meetings, she seemed to understand more about me than … some who had known me for years. This was not some fairytale love at first sight, but I had come to a decision.

This woman was my solution to noblewomen who were either brainless or ruthless, or both, from throwing themselves at me. All that remained would be to convince her of that.


	10. Pasts and Plans

In the bright afternoon light, I pondered the most obvious flaw in my plan, one that could kill it while still in its infancy: the amount that I knew about wooing a woman could be fit in a single mug and have room left over for Maric's common sense. My rare experiences as an adolescent clearly would shed almost no light on courting a mature woman, and dealing with Rowan was in no way helpful with any normal situation.

Not that this was a normal situation, I supposed, but it was odd in its own unique way.

I had no intention of moving towards this goal without a comprehensive plan, but I felt I had to act quickly. Obviously, I could simply visit to retrieve my cloak, but that seemed a weak attack at best. An idea struck me and I scribbled instructions to one of the ubiquitous servants; it made it easier for me and meant one less person hovering while I planned.

I had nearly scratched a hole in a piece of parchment before I came to the conclusion that even before a plan, I needed more information. What did I know about her, really? I had a random sack full of trivia and history, and a general impression of her personality. I thought that she had enjoyed speaking with me as much as I enjoyed my evening with her, as I suspected that polite behavior did not extend to her staying up all night rather than excuse herself. (For that matter, she certainly could have escaped when I left to use the privy.)

Dear Maker, though, who could I ask for information? Should I set servants to spy on her like some kind of criminal? That would go well, surely; it was, I imagined, a good idea to keep this at least a little under wraps until success was achieved. I thought about which of Gwaren's citizens I had at least some connection to beyond shaking their hand at the festival or being bought a drink when I first arrived in the city.

As I left the keep, I passed Finbar walking towards my study. "We'll speak later," I informed him as he opened his mouth. It stayed open as I swooped past him.

* * *

"So you're saying that you want to know more about the fair potter girl, eh?" the old herb woman, who was rather oppressively named Gormelia, asked. I had to wonder how such names came about; it seemed appropriate now, but I could not imagine little infant Gormelia at all. Her little stall seemed to be doing well, the racks of tiny bottles seemed to lack dust and the dried herbs that hung seemed to have a great deal of variety. I felt satisfied with myself, since I had kept my promise to recommend her to my new troops when they had arrived. I think she may have been supplying the herbs for the linens at the keep as well, but I wasn't completely sure. At any rate, I nodded, unsure how much explanation I should supply.

"A sweet enough girl much of the time, but she has a sharp-tongue on her if riled," she explained, adding little to my knowledge. "Like far too many her age, she's had a lot of pain in her life. Her brother, he made the mistake of standing up to the new lord when he wanted to take a good piece of work, a wardrobe I think it was, off his da for no pay at all. It takes time to make such a thing, and Cecil… no, Cecil was the grandfather, that's where the girl's name was from. Alan, that was the boy. Alan knew they didn't sell many things, couldn't bear to see his father's work stolen. He was round about twenty, had that stubbornness and pride that only gets better in some. So Teyrn… Jehan, I think it was, he had just got here and needed to make an example anyway, so there was his chance. Had his men kill him and cart off his new wardrobe fast as you please and left little Celia and her mother crying over the body and _still_ with no money to put food in their mouths. If her da had been there, I don't doubt he would have gotten himself killed, too, and left them both alone."

This was the advantage of talking with lonely and friendly old women. You barely had to ask questions, you just had to nod at the right places and look interested. "She said something about going off to live with a cousin…?"

"Oh, lad, your grace that is, that didn't come til later. You let me tell the story, hmm? The girl was no more than ten, but old enough to know she'd lost her brother, eh? A good number of years between them and she used to follow him around like a duckling. But, aye, they left town, out to her ma's sister's. They were safe enough there, but one day Isidora, Celia's ma, she went out to find windfall fruit in the woods, and she never came back. Never knew if a bear or wolf found her, or the Teyrn's men out for fun, or, well… it's tough for parent to handle losing a child, one grown out of childhood and all." The old woman snuffled into her sleeve and sighed, perhaps thinking of lost children of her own.

Damn the Orleisiens to the darkest hole and the hottest fire. They had left their filthy fingerprints on every soul in this country. There were even some days when I pitied the people who had been forced to learn they had a price, though those days were as rare as blossoms in the winter. And to defend against them coming back, we would have to _keep_ taking people who should have been farmers or woodworkers or even lazy noblemen and turning them into soldiers and spies. Maker curse every last one of them.

I extracted one last bit of information and departed with a stoppered bottle of rose-scented perfume.

* * *

A few days later, I surveyed my weaponry. The perfume had been transferred to a less plain, though still strong and serviceable bottle. A soft bundle wrapped in paper had been delivered to the keep in response to the scribbled note. Finally, I had hopes that the rider I had sent to find the status of the caravan carrying the glazes Celia sought was on his way back. Ideally, he would return not just with the information, but the actual glazes, before anyone else in Gwaren had them this season.

Naturally, I would not lay all of this on her at once. I know that I would have been immensely suspicious of an array of gifts produced like magic, never mind that I wasn't trying to show off my power and wealth but my thoughtfulness and attention to detail. It wouldn't be the _things_ that won her, I assumed, it would be what they implied. In fact, if it were the things, I would know that I had made a dreadful decision. The point was getting to know her, and having an excuse to do so; my mind had been made up quickly, but it certainly could be unmade if I had judged wrongly.

It seemed to me that perhaps courting a woman should not be too different from building a friendship, but that only made me consider how few of those that I had that lived, that I had not driven away. Was my plan merely so I would someone to talk with during the dull, cold months of winter?

There was a knock on the door-frame and a politely cleared throat. I didn't even have to look up to know that Finbar Martin stood in the open doorway of my study. "Come to see what's been distracting me from my work? Never fear, I've looked over those papers you left. I've made some notations of things that I need to know before I make the decision on the MacCune orchard."

"Good to know, Your Grace. Actually, sir, I assumed you wished to speak with me and you are doing a remarkable imitation of a ghost. The work gets done, papers are signed, and yet no one seems to see you," he explained.

Ah yes, distract me from his own sins with mention of my mysterious behavior. I was somewhat amazed that such a master of the social dance had brought his foot down on mine with the crunch of toes with his ill-considered match-making. I gestured for him to enter and approach and he did, closing the door behind him.

"You may be thinking that the first thing I will do is apologize for the threat I made in the heat of the moment. I must disabuse you of that notion – you are a glorified servant, a privileged servant to be sure, one that I must be able to trust, but in the end still a servant. Advise me on whatever you see fit, but you will not _meddle_ in things that do not concern the running of this castle, or this Teyrnir," I stated calmly and flatly. Anger bubbled under the surface, but I wished him to see that this was not a lecture born of anger, or at least not anger alone.

"Will I be moving on, then, Your Grace? I can certainly find reasons to give for resigning…" Surprisingly, I thought I saw a hint of sorrow in his eyes, or perhaps I heard it in his voice.

I snorted. "Absolutely not. Your advice has been invaluable, and even if your methods are suspect, your motivation is correct enough. As the founder of a new noble line, it is indeed my duty to find a bride and quickly. But I will do the finding and the choosing, and that is my final word. You will do your job, and nothing more. I want you to know that I was completely serious – if you stop over the line, I will take more than your position from you – but that you will be welcome to remain in my service as long as you do not. I prize competence that much, do you understand?"

Finbar looked at his feet for a moment, digesting my words. He looked up, thin-lipped with worry and tension. "I apologize for my presumption, Your Grace. It will not happen again." He began to say something else and decided to keep his mouth shut instead, and I decided it was wiser to let it lay. I thought it likely he was going to elucidate on what he did wrong; hopefully he hadn't been about to reveal some plan already in motion - even more hopefully not one that could not be dismantled before I learned about it the hard way.


	11. Unexpected Points of View

I felt surprisingly nervous, of all things. I knew that Celia was allowed this day to herself by the master potter she worked under, a man named Rhys. I was going to go to retrieve my cloak while I knew she was at her home. Contrary to my initial thought when I first saw her, said home was not connected to the pottery shop itself, but on the outskirts of the city on the forest side. It was tiny and a bit shabby, like most of the town, but was untouched by fire, which was more than many could say. The shutters were newly painted in a cheerful green with yellow trim and the roof had a few replacement shingles that were not yet faded by the sun. It had two rooms, a front and back door, two windows (one on each room) and a small round chimney. The back door let onto a yard that I could nearly reach across which contained the expected privy. I would go to her home, speak for a moment and arrange to meet with her again.

The last was the most difficult, really. An invitation to my castle seemed a trifle – intimidating (to her or to me? Possibly both). It was also contrary to the idea of keeping this a little quiet. There wouldn't be another festival of any sort until the winter holidays, so recreating our previous meeting seemed unlikely. I had decided in the end to simply ask if I could call on her again in a few days, during her break for lunch. By then, I should have the glazes, or at least the status of the caravan carrying them; after today I should know if it was too soon to gift them, but they seemed impersonal enough to me. The perfume, of course, would wait.

And I was nervous. I had planned things, but like every man who has ever commanded so much as a rowboat, I knew that few plans survived long when reality intruded. A strategist's true skill was defined by how he dealt with the unexpected, and today would doubtless be the same, but I didn't have to enjoy the churning feeling in my gut, like some adolescent taking flowers to some girl he's finally daring to approach.

I certainly wasn't going to tromp around in That Armor for this occasion, but my choices were somewhat limited. I considered the doublet I had ignored from the festival. It was petal soft grey wool, almost the color of my armor in fact, and then embroidered with black thread. That night I had merely noted that it fit better than anything I had ever owned, but now I appreciated that the style suited my personality well and I assumed the colors suited me. The (very) tightly fitted trousers were a dark blue and were sort of velvet. Impressive, I was sure, but out of place walking through town and somewhat obvious if I showed up on Celia's doorstep in them. I supposed I should ask that tailor (what was his name?) to make me similar items in less lavish materials. In the meantime I rummaged until I found something that was neither rumpled nor looked like I had stolen off a forester's back, which took some time. I finally departed clad in a bleached full sleeved shirt, loose black linen trews and a long leather vest in a dark green. I hope it struck the balance I sought between being presentable and yet accessible.

After I cleaned by teeth again and was polishing my boots, I realized it. Blast it, I was delaying. I was actually _putting things off because I was nervous._ Andraste's flaming pyre, I was being a child. I picked up the soft package and forced myself to leave the building.

Finally, I stood before her house and walked forthrightly up to her door and knocked, not too hard like a landlord seeking rent, nor too soft and tentative. I waited expectantly. Nothing happened. I knocked again, a bit harder. I tucked the package under one arm. I fidgeted. After some more waiting, I was forced to admit that for all my planning, she was out. Glancing at the clouded sky I wondered if my delay meant that she had gone out to get her lunch at a cook-shop. With a sigh, I settled on the fence rail across the narrow street. I sketched a map of the city in the dirt with my toe. I re-braided my hair. I tried to keep my head down and yet at the same time look friendly enough to not attract attention from the very few people who came by. Finally, she returned and as I expected she carried a basket with a towel carefully tucked around the contents. She was wearing a pale yellow dress almost the exact shade of her hair. And my forgotten short cloak.

I smiled slightly and ignored the twinge of something that realization caused. Despite it being around noon (it was difficult to tell with the grey sky), it was a chilly day, that was all. I forced myself to remain where I was for long enough for her to eat her food while it was still warm. My only other choice would have been to invite myself to share, and that seemed rude even for me. Or perhaps I was delaying again.

Finally, I approached and knocked on the door. To her credit, Celia didn't look at all surprised to see me; perhaps she had spotted me waiting for her return, though I hadn't seen her look in my direction. "Good day, Celia. I came to- " and she interrupted me. "Oh, yes, your cloak of course. Come in, come in." So I did.

She could have simply handed me the cloak from where it lay draped over her chair, but waved me towards the other wooden chair across from her. It was old and worn, but the legs were elegantly lathed and the back bore carved roses that must have almost looked alive when they were new and freshly stained. The room had other signs of her father's craft: a tall and regally paneled oak wardrobe towered above everything else, an intricate wood carving of a gull flying over fishermen bringing in the catch hung on the far wall.

The silence could have become awkward, but Celia broke it by offering me a drink as she returned to her recently abandoned seat. I sipped the fresh cider from a glazed beaker that would not have looked out of place back in Denerim. I glanced at the beverage appreciatively and Celia smiled.

"I trade with the fruit pickers, jars to store their product in return for some of it. I've a small cellar, so I have fruit, however dried and wrinkled, to last the winter. I trade some to one of the women who makes delicious preserves and jellies, as well," she explained.

"It's amazing the difference between well preserved and poorly. We had such an odd mixture of foods, in camp. Fresh venison that could have stood to hang a few more days and instead tasting like it had spent those days in the pot along with three year old raspberry preserves that some old woman with a patriotic heart had found to spare. We'd leave behind buried caches and hope that we'd return while they were still food and not dug up by the wolves." Speaking of it, I could almost taste the venison stew with wild onions and old woody parsnips and then the sweet-sour of tarts made with old raspberries and cooked in a camp stove made of coals and piled stones… Sister Ailis always seemed to know just when things were going to turn and made me into an expert at trimming the bad parts out of apples and cheeses. When I traveled with Rowan, I had ended up doing the cooking, something that she had found endlessly amusing.

It does not matter what Rowan found amusing, then or now.

"Did you see many wolves in the woods?" Celia's shoulders had folded in a little and she held her hands in her lap. Tread carefully, I whispered to myself, remember her mother disappearing in the forest.

"Oh, not so many, really. They almost became camp pets when we were in one place for long enough, with all the guts and offal we let them have – well away from camp, of course." A bit of an exaggeration, but it appeared it was a comforting one as she sipped again at her own cider.

"It seems like it would be difficult to have a proper pet, if you were always moving. When I was a girl, I found a little goldfinch chick that fell out of the nest and kept it in a cage. It ate few enough seeds and became quite friendly to me, but sadly the little things have such short lives." It didn't seem to sadden her much to think of her poor pet's mortality. I was a bit glad that she hadn't asked me about my pets. I remembered my mabari with great joy and her death with equally ferocious anger. The thought made me clench my jaw and I turned it into a stern nod, perhaps a bit more stern than a dead finch warranted, but better than the scowl I had probably worn for a moment.

We sat in silence again, but it was a comfortable silence that suggested we were both thinking about the past, or imagining each other's past perhaps. I know that I could picture a skinny little girl with cornsilk hair that probably overwhelmed her face with a tiny bird perched on her finger.

I swept the gift wrapped in coarse paper to the center of the table. She tilted her head at me with a quizzical smile, a combination of "for me?" and "what have we here?" I made circling motions with my fingers, "go on, open it" gestures. Realizing that I wouldn't be forthcoming with more information, she relented with a tiny chuckle and untied the string.

"Oh, what's this?" she crooned as she petted the deep rose linen revealed. "That's a lovely color, like … like my mother's roses." Her head dropped for a moment until she picked the fabric up and held it to her breast. I was startled – I admitted, at least to myself, that I had no such idea in mind, but had merely been assured that such a color would go with her pink skin tone and pale hair, which it certainly did.

"It's a cloak. To exchange for that dirty old thing of mine, so that you won't be cold as the winter comes on," I explained in a somewhat more throaty whisper than I intended. I wanted a reaction, but I certainly hadn't expected _this_ much. She stood and shook the garment out and put her hand to her mouth as the shining silk lining in the blue of a perfect sky was revealed. Stepping back, she swept it around her shoulders and it was my breath taken away for a moment at the sorrow-tinged joy on her face as she spun.

Silk is a very practical lining for a cloak. It's soft against the skin and the tight weave cuts the wind. The length, too, was good, just past the knee, useful without getting in the way like most ladies ankle length capes. Or so I noted in my memory later, for I found my mind entirely filled with the beauty that I saw before me.


	12. Back to the Ground

I gave myself a mental slap before I started fawning over her. I covered my reaction with a sip of cider that went down a little hard. "I'm glad that you like it. You were so chilled the other night that it didn't seem fair to leave you without something once I fetched that rag of mine back. Although, I imagine you have something of your own already," I remarked off-handedly. I watched closely, and as I suspected, her eyes first went to my grubby field cloak on the back of her chair and then to the grand old wardrobe very briefly before returning to me.

"Oh, yes, but nothing as fine as this. You didn't have to get me anything, let alone something so costly," she pointed out, while her hands continued to stroke the soft lining. She wasn't lying, her eyes showed me that, and I admit I could only think of one reason to wear my cloak when she had another, unless it was threadbare even compared to that one. And that reason told me that this might be an easier and shorter war than I had thought.

This wasn't unexpected. I don't pick battles where I have no hope of victory, after all. She wasn't some random woman off the street that I had chosen to court, she was someone who had foregone sleep and the pleasure of other company to speak with me.

"No, I didn't. I chose to, because you gave me the first opportunity I've had in some time to be completely and utterly myself. Apparently, either that rarely happens to nobles, or most of them have an iron rod permanently riveted to their backs," I observed wryly. "I suppose I'm… not very good at saying thank you. So." I gestured at the paper wrapping on the table. While she spoke, she removed the rose-colored cloth and laid it across her chair with a final stroke.

"The way you speak – would you prefer I pretend that it was some sort of chore to spend the evening with you? I admit that I am not much of an actress, but I can try. Of course, I would hate to take your gifts under false pretenses." Her eyes, a softer blue than mine, with a gold core, twinkled at me while she attempted to keep the rest of her features serious. She told the truth; she wasn't much of an actress. Oddly, that did not disturb me in the least.

I leaned forward slowly so as not to make her jump or move away and earnestly told her, "No, I would prefer that you are entirely yourself, madam. I would have nothing more from you, or less."

That close, we stared for a moment, and I think we both wondered if this game was proceeding too quickly suddenly. I sat back abruptly and a moment later Celia stood and went to fumble with the curtains and shutters on the window.

"Madam is so formal… sir, especially for someone who thanked me for allowing him to let his hair down, so to speak." She spoke with her back to me, her voice somewhat muffled. It made it more difficult to read the emotions in her voice.

"Odd, that you complain to me about formality and yet I don't believe I have _yet_ to hear my name pass your lips. Madam." I folded my arms and leaned my chair back, booted foot on the cross bar. Of course, my pose would do no good unless she… turned around, like that. Good. Her eyebrows were raised to maximum extension. The moment of too-soon intimacy was put behind us as we returned to The Game, instead.

"You never introduced yourself, "she huffed at me.

"Introduced myself? But I'm the H-"and she interrupted me.

"You are a completely ordinary soldier and son of farmers. Or it sounds like you want to be treated as if that is all you are. Why would I have heard of a simple soldier?" The tartness had definitely made a return to her voice.

"Oh, you allow me to be myself, but that includes the General and the Teyrn, and I doubt I can totally set them aside. Let me bow to your request, however. Loghain Mac Tir, madam, and a pleasure to make your acquaintance." I stood and bowed over her hand. It was still slightly chilled. Did the woman never warm up?

"Loghain. A most unusual name."

"Common enough in the northwest, and probably becoming more common daily. So, I introduced myself. May I call upon you at noon, in two days, Celia?" She had taken her hand back so that she could stifle a giggle at my elaborate formality.

"That would be delightful, sir. Loghain. I eagerly await your return." And that was that for the day.

* * *

I returned to the keep and changed my sweat-soaked shirt. In my absence, a letter had materialized on my desk, sealed with the royal seal. Damn Maric for spoiling my day. It was marginally mitigated by a wooden box filled with sealed pots and pouches; the dyes. Doubtless my rider had returned with both, or rode in with the royal messenger.

_Loghain,_

_I can feel you glaring from two weeks in the future and all the way from Gwaren. Stop it._

_You've a visitor on his way. A new Antivan Ambassador has been sent, since the last one accidentally got cleaned out of the palace with the rest of the riffraff. The Antivans are being surprisingly good about that – I think they are used to high officials having accidents. Anyway, I was informed by mage that he has been delayed, so it is very likely that when he arrives by ship, you will be stuck with him for the winter. His delegation shouldn't exceed thirty. No, actually, it should be five besides him, since we managed to not wipe out the entire embassy. List enclosed._

_Maric Theirin, King of Ferelden, &tc._

And scribbled on the bottom:

_Managed to get out to remove some Orlesians gone bandit. Wish you had seen Maric's face. Doubt I'll have another chance; court ladies already trying to decide if my waist is thickening. Hate to disappoint them, I am just out of fighting trim. Unlikely to get it back now._

_-R_

Oblique message there in Rowan's words and I shuddered to think of the situation we had dodged. I doubted that a child of mine would look at all like it had sprung from golden Maric's loins, and all three of us would have known the truth one way or another. The truth that we had was bad enough without adding in a royal bastard – or, I supposed, a non-royal bastard in that case.

Not to put the cart before the horse, I wondered what sort of father I would make, if that day came. I didn't think that I would be my father; there would be no need to be Gareth as he was in the camp, not if the treaty with Orlais stuck. I hoped that we had proven to them that Ferelden was a bad deal for them. And my father was not the same man after my mother's death. Neither of us were the same. I would do everything in my power, and that was one benefit of being a Teyrn, to ensure that such a thing never happened to my future wife.

I doubted though, that I would suddenly turn into pudding, either. Stern, but not distant, that would be my goal. I would not lose my dignity over tiny toes, but I would not be the forbidding and seldom seen figure that some fathers were. Or at least I could hope.

Regardless, we had an ambassador to prepare for, even if luck declared that it would only be briefly. Given the vagaries of sea travel, he could be arriving anywhere between tomorrow and the spring thaw. I strode out of my study bellowing for Finbar. At least this was a task where he couldn't muck around with my personal life.

He was practically standing outside my door. I wondered if I had swept right by him when I returned. Ah well, this assignment would funnel his curiosity into something else. And in the end, everyone would know if I were successful – I just didn't want the situation to be peered at like a black speck in your porridge, or to look a fool if I failed.

An endeavor cannot be a failure until you stop trying, or find yourself dead. In this case, the latter was unlikely unless I did something so stupid that it was even unworthy of Maric. That was unfair; Maric just chose to sleep with a woman who happened to be a spy sent to capture or kill him or something. The fact that he may have actually turned her to his side completed all you needed to know about Maric and love.

The rest of the meeting was dull, going over what to expect in the way of staff, what we would have to provide in entertainment, not just accommodations, that sort of thing. The only bright spot was trying to decide which staff member was likely to be the concealed Crow. He (or she – Finbar was sold that the Ambassador's personal chef had to the Crow, while I was going for Gentleman of the Chamber) would be along for defensive purposes, but that most likely wouldn't stop them from taking independent contracts on the side. I'm be damned if I let a hidden assassin leave my Teyrnir without being able to tell Maric who he was. I wondered if there would be a betting pool once the ambassador had arrived; I would do what all good commanders did in that situation: ignore it. If I took notice of it, I would have to shut it down. Knowing the Antivans, if they learned of it, the Ambassador would probably put money on someone, probably the wrong someone hoping to throw people off the scent.

Finbar only inquired once as to what had taken me from the castle for so much of the afternoon and so I only had to tell him that it was none of his affair once.


End file.
